


The Soul and the Moon (and all of the things in between)

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Couples in Love, Dancing, Derek Bakes, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, I apparently have a thing for dancing and nose kisses, M/M, Muffins and Cookies and Cakes, This is the fluffiest thing I have ever written, and also infusing 'moon' into the title of every fic i write ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fire, and when Derek’s life was characterised by change over change, cityscape over cityscape, motel room over motel room, the only things that remained a constant in his life was his sister, the charred remains of their family heirlooms and those same songs on that damned iPod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soul and the Moon (and all of the things in between)

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what happened, one minute I was browsing tumblr and listening to Natasha Bedingfield's _Love Like This_ , and then out popped this fluffy monstrosity. 
> 
> But you know what? Derek deserves some musical lovin' so help him, God. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm on [ Tumblr](http://www.cousinstiles.tumblr.com); feel free to come and watch me make sarcastic overtures on account of Hoechlin's face, trust me, it's a hoot. 
> 
> Of course, Teen Wolf does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Jeff Davis, and all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

-

Derek has no doubts that half of the people in Beacon Hills spend their time wondering how he even has the strength to get up in the morning after everything that life has thrown at him.

A lot of it has to do with Stiles, who proved to be, after misguided antagonism turned into something different, something a lot more _whole_ , the defining factor in Derek’s life.

Stiles is not his _everything_ , no, Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to open himself up like that after the disaster that was Kate Argent, but Stiles? Well, Stiles is pretty damn close to being Derek’s entire world.

It’s a hell of a lot easier now to drag himself out of bed in the morning, when that very same bed is occupied by a grumpy Stiles clad only in boxers and a scowl, shoving the covers above his head in an effort to block out the encroaching morning light.

But long before Stiles, before he had the solidarity of Stiles’ company, Derek had a system.

He used to relentlessly tease Laura about her taste in music, all lofty vocals and harmonised choruses layered over synthetic base beats that tumbled over each other in a slow sort of cadence.

After the fire, and when Derek’s life was characterised by change over change, cityscape over cityscape, motel room over motel room, the only things that remained a constant in his life was his sister, the charred remains of their family heirlooms and those same songs on that damned iPod.

They kept adding to it over the years; and it was the only thing that could sometimes lull Laura out of that deep space in her head, where her eyes would grow vacant and her face slack.

She’d listen to those songs, and she’d smile, weakly, and she’d say, “I’ll redeem myself, I swear to you, Derek. I will.”

He only wishes that her redemption wasn’t in the form of going back to their old haunted hometown.

Laura died, and Derek hid that part of himself away, the one that would plaster a smile on his face to appease her worries, drag her upright from the couch and dance with her like they would on full moons when they were kids, when they had a _pack_.

For a long time Derek thought that those songs, those memories would hurt too much, but he was mistaken.

Boredom drove him to dig out that scratched silver iPod from the depths of his old rucksack on the nights he spent in his car, nights too cold and too wet to spend in the charred skeleton of his childhood home.

Listening to those songs, reviving those memories, of his and Laura’s voices mingling terribly above the songs, _god_ , it felt like his soul was being pieced back together.

Like each individual piece was slowly being put together to make him okay, to make him better. Those pieces might have been tiny, almost insubstantial mangled bits of his heart but they were worth it anyway.

Now Derek doesn’t have much of a need to dig those songs out again, and it’s such a relief, for the most part. It’s not that Derek is fully recovered now, because he doesn’t think he ever will be, but now Derek has other, _healthier_ , things to concentrate on.

He’s in his and Stiles’ kitchen, the sleeves of his Henley pushed up to his elbow, fingers digging into the bread dough he’s kneading on the counter, hips swaying to the music that resounds across the space.

Stiles is away, on a soul-finding road trip with Scott and Isaac across the West Coast for the week. He’s supposed to get in later that night, so Derek has the house to himself.

He’s not playing his sister’s iPod, infused with her fifteen year old self’s tastes, because he’s sad but rather because, for once in a really long time, he _isn’t_.

He has flour tangled in the hair of his forearms and dusting the front of his jeans, a cake in a glass stand by the window, Derek's pretty sure he has batter streaked across his cheek as well as cardamom seeds interspersed through his just-showered hair.

He hasn’t needed to dig those songs out again, but he also hasn't had much of a chance _to_ dig them out, even if he wanted to.

Stiles, Cora, Scott, Isaac, the Sheriff and Melissa now constantly surround him and he doesn’t mind, of course he doesn’t, because two years ago Derek wouldn’t ever have thought that he’d have this again. But Derek also likes time _alone_.

Now that he has it for once, he’s going to enjoy it.

Their kitchen is pretty small, cluttered with the cookbooks and baking utensils that Stiles bought in droves the minute he found out Derek’s interest in the hobby, as well as Stiles’ college paraphernalia: books, pens, research, sticky notes, postcards and a hell of a lot more.

They’re not the most organised couple to ever exist, but it doesn’t matter because they know exactly how to navigate around their wayward home.

The air in the kitchen is hot and fragrant, it smells of the batch of cookies Derek has in the oven and the pots of daisies that Stiles insists on having lining the windowsill.

It’s late in the afternoon, with the sun casting frayed gold beams over the granite counters, the cool, white tiles and the double decker rack of muffins Derek has set out lined and ready to be placed in the oven.

He’s pretty glad that their house is an out of the way, two-storey on the edge of town, with a high railing around the garden and shrubbery beyond that that hides their privacy from view. 

He can only imagine what the locals would say if they saw him dancing around his kitchen to cheesy Brit-pop songs as the sun sinks into the horizon.

He places the bread in a glass bowl and covers it with clingfilm, shimmying his way to the sink to wash his hands just in time for the timer to go off for the cookies.

Derek likes this, he likes having control over the things he does in his life and having the fruits of his labour turn out pretty damn great, even if it's as inconsequential as a batch of cookies.

He leaves the cookies to cool and swaps them out for the muffins, sliding both racks into the oven as he moves.

He can’t quite help but want to move along with the song; though usually Derek prefers something darker, something with a heavier base, with rippling guitars, voracious vocals and sharp cracks of percussion, sometimes songs like this wash over him like a cool medley.

He’s over by the sink, washing up the pots and pans, elbow deep into the warm sudsy water, bubbles sidling over his fingers and he can’t quite stop himself from closing his eyes, head tipping back as he swivels his hips.

Derek knows the lyrics by heart by now; he can never fully bring himself to sing them out loud but he mouths them, shoulders arcing and curving as he moves from side to side.

The vocals seem to slide over his spine, liquid hot and insatiable, slithering over his skin and sinking into his bones. With his eyes closed like this, his kitchen smelling just like a patisserie and the music flowing over him, Derek's free from any ills.

So he lets go, because he feels like he _can_ let go.

Soon enough Derek’s hands are holding on to the sink only as mere pretence, he throws his whole body into the dance, rhythm sparking up the length of him like tiny firecrackers beneath his muscles.

Derek is thick: able-bodied and heavily built, but he wasn’t always. He has rhythm, he knows that, it’s partly why he was so successful at basketball, and it shows now, in the way that his body moves, in the same way as all those years ago: delicate bones shifting and settling beneath smooth skin and slick muscle.

The harmonised chorus soars, and it’s resplendent in the way that it inhabits Derek, leaving him flushed and wild, almost animalistic if it weren’t for the lazy smile on his face and the unperturbed aura around him.

Derek doesn’t even know what makes him look over his shoulder, probably some inherent awareness of his surroundings or the lingering paranoia from years ago, but he does.

He opens his eyes, looks over his shoulder and there’s Stiles.

He’s leaning against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed neatly over the other beneath his folded arms, his customary backpack and Derek’s old rucksack (now stuffed with Stiles’ things) dumped on the floor next to him.

Derek startles in the middle of swinging his hips, he hadn’t even heard Scott’s car, nor heard Stiles open the door. He blushes, embarrassed to be caught, and hastily wipes his hands on the tea towel tossed haphazardly next to the sink.

He stands there, facing Stiles, music blaring in the background, with his hands fisted in the towel and watches the expression on his boyfriend’s face.

The look on Stiles’ face though, is all softness; he has that tilted smile, brown hair in disarray and the assembly of brown moles standing in sharp relief against his pale skin.

“Hey, wolf,” Stiles greets, teeth sinking into his smile, Derek might not even have heard him if not for his lupine qualities. He can do nothing but jerkily nod back in return, wildly casting his mind about for a feasible explanation.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Stiles continues, honeyed gaze raking over Derek’s form.

He rolls his eyes at Derek’s inertia, pushing himself from the door and walking further in.

He’s grown into himself over the years, filling out his broad chest and his long limbs and now he walks with a self-assuredness that’s hard to convey, because it’s not smug confidence but it’s not meek reticence either.

Stiles pauses only to jab at the buttons of the iPod dock, playing the song from the beginning, and by the time that he’s slinking his way towards Derek, he’s already falling into the rhythm of the song.

Stiles is all jerky movements and unruly arms, lithe body cutting through the air like swift blocks of sugar. Derek begins to back up as soon as he realises what Stiles is attempting to do.

But their kitchen is small, which means that Stiles is on him before he even realises it.

Stiles gently detangles Derek’s stiff fingers from the tea towel, throwing the offending article over his shoulder where it lands with a soft, wet _thwack_ on the spice rack.

“Stiles,” Derek warns, backing up. “Come on, no.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Hale,” Stiles remarks lightly, pulling Derek's arms to fold over his shoulders. Then his forearms flex and he’s pulling Derek towards him, lining up their bodies.

He’s not even doing anything special, just a half-shuffling tumble and step as he migrates closer to Derek, he should look ridiculous, he _does_ look ridiculous - but as always Stiles throws himself into the ridicule of it all with abandon.

Derek, admitting defeat, better rearranges his arms around Stiles’ shoulders before he ducks his head, buries his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

He’s missed him; he’s missed his snark and his warmth and just _all_ of him. Stiles smells like Scott and Isaac and the inside of Scott’s car, but beneath that, deeper than that, he smells like their home and of Derek and the nights they spend curled around each other.

Derek takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut and pulls Stiles all the more closer to him. The way they move now is easy, heads tucked close to each other and arms wrapped around bodies.

Stiles takes the lead, and Derek expects nothing less, grinding on Derek with a steadfast resolve. Though there’s nothing particularly sensual about this, it’s as much as intimate as when they have sex: bodies crushed tight, hearts accelerating, eyes fluttering shut.

Derek can feel Stiles’ warm breath gusting over the side of his neck and he bites down the urge to smile, they move in a contained embrace, twisting closer around each other as they dodge the miscellaneous objects scattered across their floor.

Stiles, of course, throws his entire self into the song, exposing the pale line of his throat, eyes closed as he slips his thigh between Derek’s and swirls his hips forward.

When he pulls in close, forehead pressed against Derek’s, he’s smiling, a self-indulgent slither of happiness that reflects in his eyes too, and that’s when Derek stands a little straighter, holds his shoulders a little more proudly; because he has Stiles now, and he’s survived the entire catastrophe of his life to the soundtrack that’s blaring out of his big sister’s iPod, and that hole, that emptiness that encompasses his family and his childhood, it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

So he slips his arms from Stiles’ shoulders and wraps his hands around his hips instead.

They’re so close now that Derek can feel Stiles’ breath wash over his mouth, feel his heartbeat, quick and comforting, beating beneath his chest, he can _feel_ the notes of the song vibrate beneath Stiles’ skin and surround them.

They’re only rocking from side to side but it doesn’t matter, it’s transcendent in its own right.

The world is gradually getting darker outside, the moon inching its slow path over the curve of the sky, but neither Derek nor Stiles take notice, too entranced by each other.

Stiles tilts his chin up, turns his head a little to the side and his tongue darts out to lick a wet stripe just beneath Derek’s cheekbone, proving Derek’s earlier theorisation by coming away with the cake batter already dissolving on his tongue.

Stiles’ thumb comes up to clean away the remnant vestiges of the batter but then Derek is leaning forward, nudging the tip of Stiles’ upturned nose with his own.

His mouth fits over Stiles’ just as effortlessly as he remembers, lips brushing against lips and the smallest pucker of a rose-pink mouth captured between Derek’s own.

Stiles smiles half-way through the kiss, and Derek ends up kissing his teeth more than anything but it doesn’t particularly matter because Stiles hands flex on Derek’s back and sink the warmth of his palms deep into the wings of his shoulder blades as he pulls him closer.

Eventually Stiles' hands find their way beneath Derek’s shirt, and Derek’s hands come up to cup Stiles’ jaw, holding him in place as he opens his mouth and deepens the kiss.

Stiles mouth tastes of sugar and warm heat, and love so _good_ that Derek nearly melts.

He knows that he can keep the history of the iPod to himself, Stiles might figure it out eventually, but Derek won’t ever have to say a word.

Stiles won’t push.

He knows what loss feels like, so he won’t push.

But Derek will tell him anyway, because that’s what they do now. They kiss and they love and they _talk_.

Derek hasn’t been particularly good at communicating for a long while, but for now, with Stiles, he thinks he’ll try.

-

**Author's Note:**

> Hah, I was supposed to be writing my other fic, but I guess that'll have to wait until tomorrow. It's one in the morning over here in Scotland which of course means that I'll be on my merry way to make supper and revise a little before bed.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, leave a kudos and comment if you want and I hope to see you again soon!


End file.
